in a churchyard

by horace p sternwall

on a dreary rainy eve a hand plucked at my sleeve i turned to see a pallid sprite flickering in the fading light and though i made protest it put me to the test and as the rain did drip it did not relax its grip and down a muddy lane like a runaway train he proceeded to tell a tale old and sad as a rusty nail he was a sad and lonely cuss of whom the world made little fuss the desires with which he was torn met with society's scorn he became an incubus possessed with sodden lusts vainly seeking peace at last in the worlds through which he passed the particulars of his tale sought my pity, to no avail perhaps we all have stories but their resonance and glories are best left to our own selves everyone else leaves on the shelves the narratives of others so let me go, brother let us each go our own way perhaps on judgment day we may our acquaintance renew until then - adieu so i reasoned with the shade who, in fact, began to fade with a look in his pale eyes more of sadness than surprise i looked around the gloom at the wet grass and the tombs the faded words scribed on the stones again - happily - alone